Vanna Rose, the Stone & the Chamber
by Aiyta
Summary: Vanna is eleven years old when she realises she doesn't know herself very well. For starters, she's a witch, and not only that but a dark-wizard-defeating infant and, on top of it all, the Sorting Hat insists she's a Slytherin. (AU, Girl Who Lived)
1. The Girl Who Lived

**Vanna Rose, the Stone & the Chamber  
**Vanna is eleven years old when she realises she doesn't know herself very well. For starters, she's a witch, and not only that but a dark-wizard-defeating infant and, on top of it all, the Sorting Hat insists she's a Slytherin. (AU, Girl-Who-Lived)

* * *

**Hi!... Just a few details before I begin...**

Okay, so I'm totally new to the Harry Potter fandom but I can safely presume this concept has been done a thousand times before. So yes, I _am_ rewriting the story of Harry Potter, only slightly differently, with a female lead. Sorry if that bores you. Essentially, this is an alternate universe version of Harry Potter in which the events of canon are molded to suit my own little fantasies. It's all designed to make me feel a little better about Ms Rowling making me bawl my eyes out during Deathly Hallows.

Oh, and advanced warning to James x Lily shippers – you probably won't enjoy this story.

...

I plan to write the tale of this alternate universe in the following fashion...

1. Vanna Rose, the Stone & the Chamber (_that's this one – yay!_)  
_Includes introductions and events from Philosopher's Stone and Chamber of Secrets._

2. Vanna Rose, the Godfather & the Goblet  
_Includes events from Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire._

3. Vanna Rose, the Order & the Prince  
_Includes events from Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince_

4. Vanna Rose, the Horcruxes & the Hallows_  
Includes events from Deathly Hallows, but does not include epilogue._

5. Untitled  
_Post-war years from 1998 until approximately 2000/2001._

_..._

Other future possibilities include...

1. Marauders Era (prologue/back-story spanning from 1975-1981)

2. Next Generation (Hogwarts years of the Next Gen kids, beginning from 2017)

3. Crossover (Vanna visits the canon-universe and meets Harry)

...

Disclaimer... Obviously, I do not own Harry Potter. Direct quotes and paraphrased passages will, of course, be used throughout this story and all of which belong to J.K. Rowling.

* * *

**The Girl Who Lived**

_November, 1981_

Privet Drive, nestled away in Little Whinging, Surrey, was peaceful and hushed beneath the gray and cloudy November skies. A calm breeze rustled leaves in the trees and swayed the perfectly trimmed hedges lining the suburban landscape. In the yard of number sixteen two birds chirped in anticipation of the coming sunrise and sitting on the fence of number four, a tabby cat swished its tail in careful motions. At precisely five o'clock the slim figure of a man, dressed in purple robes, appeared from thin air on the street corner. The tabby cat ceased swishing its tail and watched intently.

The tall man with seemingly luminous silver hair, long silver beard and sparkling blue eyes, rummaged within the pockets of his floor-length cloak. He pulled out, some moments later, a slim tubular object no larger than a cigarette that glinted beneath the street-light. The tabby cat narrowed its eyes for brief moments before the first whizzing _pop_ sounded, and the closest street lamp flickered into darkness. The man continued to hold the silver object into the air until every last light disappeared, rendering the neighbourhood completely devoid of light save for the oncoming orange tinge of sunrise.

"Fancy seeing you here," the man spoke, directly addressing the cat. "Professor McGonagall."

Professor McGonagall now sat upon the fence of number four; stern-faced and immaculately put together in emerald robes. She appeared gravely displeased. "How did you know it was me?" she asked.

Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled; he smoothed his purple robes and sat beside his colleague. "My dear Professor," he said. "I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall since yesterday morning." stated Professor McGonagall.

Dumbledore appeared mildly surprised. "Since yesterday morning?" he asked. "When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall stiffened. "Not everybody is celebrating." she said pointedly. Dumbledore's eyes were briefly bereft of a twinkle. "As for those who are, you'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no – even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She inclined her head toward the living room of number four. "I heard it. Flocks of owls, shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid; they were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent – I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle, he never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," offered Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that." said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes... swapping rumours."

She directed a sharp, sideways glance toward Dumbledore, who remained silent.

"I suppose you will do nothing to deny them..." she prompted sternly. "Despite the fact that You-Know-Who has really gone, at last."

"We have much to be thankful for." he responded vaguely. "Would you care for a lemon drop?"

Professor McGonagall frowned. "A what?"

"A lemon drop." repeated Dumbledore. "They're a Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you." answered Professor McGonagall coldly; clearly disapproving of the subject change. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-"

"My dear Professor," interrupted Dumbledore, who was reaching into his pockets. "Surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense – for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name. Voldemort."

Professor McGonagall plainly flinched. Dumbledore paid her reaction no mind and continued to rummage around his cloak pockets, searching for the aforementioned lemon drops. He extracted two, stuck tightly together, and began to slowly separate them.

"It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who'." he continued, "I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," frowned Professor McGonagall. It was evident how exasperating she was finding the conversation. "But you're different. Everybody knows you're the only one You-Know- Oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."

Dumbledore remained focussed upon the lemon drops. "You flatter me," he said, calmly as ever. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too – well – noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark." Dumbledore informed her, blue eyes sparkling in earnest. "I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall directed another sharp look in his direction, evidently in no mood for nonchalant humour. "You know what everyone's saying?" she asked bluntly, "About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

In the pale glow of sunrise, she bore the full weight of her piercing stare upon the man. He remained silent, only moving to finally separate the lemon drops and place one into his mouth.

"What they're saying," she urged." Is that last night Voldemort found the cottage in Godric's Hollow. They are saying that Lily, James and Harry are... that they're dead."

Dumbledore remained silent; his expression made the answer apparent. There was a sharp gasp from Professor McGonagall in response.

"Lily, James, little Harry. I cannot believe it," she said. "I didn't want to believe it... Oh, what-"

"I know." Interrupted Dumbledore, he extended his palm to pat her upon the shoulder. "I know."

Professor McGonagall pressed on. "That's not all." her voice trembled, "They're saying he tried to kill her... poor, innocent little girl – but he couldn't. Voldemort could not kill her and nobody knows why, or how, and his power somehow broke. That's why he's gone."

Once again, his silence served to confirm her fears. His head bowed; countenance rueful.

"It- it's _true_?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed, he couldn't kill a little girl? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... but how in the name of heaven did she survive?"

"We can only guess," answered Dumbledore mysteriously. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall produced a delicate lace handkerchief from her sleeve and began to dab at her teary eyes. In the meantime, Dumbledore sat beside her inspecting a curious golden watch with all of twelve hands, no numbers and shifting planets surrounding the edge.

"Hagrid's late." announced Dumbledore. "I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes." said Professor McGonagall, having regained much of her composure. She tucked the handkerchief away and faced the older man once more. "And I don't suppose you'd like to explain _why_ here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring our little survivor to her aunt and uncle." stated Dumbledore carefully, as though he expected opposition. "They're the only family she has left now."

Professor McGonagall was instantly on her feet. "_Liar_!" she scolded. "And _these_, of all people? I've watched them all day, such people to raise her! And their son, I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. You cannot possibly allow her to be raised here!"

"It's the best place for her," said Dumbledore firmly. Professor McGonagall looked as though she wished to argue, but did not. "Her aunt will be able to explain everything to her once she is older. I will see to it that she does so correctly."

"Correctly?" repeated Professor McGonagall suspiciously. She sat back down upon the wall and narrowed her eyes again. "I suppose, Albus, that you'll be ensuring she remembers things _your_ way? Do you intend to _confund_ or _obliviate_ her?" she asked sternly, "There will be consequences. That girl will be famous – a legend – I wouldn't be surprised if they named today in her honour. Books will be written about her and every child in our world will know her name. It will become difficult to conceal the truth eventually, Dumbledore, and you'll have a lot to answer for!"

"Indeed, I will." agreed Dumbledore solemnly. "And I can only hope for their forgiveness when such a time comes. As for now, this arrangement is for the best. Surely you can understand the reasons?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, poised to disagree, but ultimately changed her mind. "Yes – yes, you're right, of course." she didn't appear as agreeable as her words sounded. "But how is the girl getting here, Dumbledore?"

"Hagrid's bringing her."

"You think it wise to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life."

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place." said Professor McGonagall grudgingly. "But you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to-"

She paused suddenly, mid-sentence, as a low rumbling sound echoed throughout the serene lull of Privet Drive. It disturbed the singing birds at number sixteen, who promptly flew away.

"What was that?" she asked Dumbledore.

In the distance, the rumbling grew steadily louder until, eventually, a large motorcycle appeared to plunge down toward the road in front of the two robed colleagues. Professor McGonagall scanned the area for onlookers cautiously, clearly relieved to find none. The man driving the motorbike, twice the size of any average human-being both in height and weight, pushed back a tangled mane of bushy black hair from his face.

"Hagrid." Dumbledore greeted the man, sounding relieved. "At last. Where did you get that motorcycle?"

Hagrid leaned forward, scooping up a tiny bundle of blankets and dismounting the motorcycle. "Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir." he explained, "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got her, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, Sir." Hagrid shook his head, "She fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall stepped forward in tandem; peering over the bundle of blankets. Inside the warm blankets rest a little girl, merely a year old, with her tiny fists balled and eyes shut tight. She rolled slightly, a tendril of glistening jet-black hair falling aside to reveal a curiously shaped cut that appeared to be the shape of a lightning bolt.

"Is that where-?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes." confirmed Dumbledore. "She'll have that scar forever."

Professor McGonagall's gaze remained fixated upon the mark. "Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't." said Dumbledore, "Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well, give her here Hagrid, I'd best get this over with."

Dumbledore carefully eased the girl from Hagrid's arms, cradling her gently. It had become significantly brighter outside and he turned toward the home of the young girl's relatives. Hagrid stumbled forward as he moved, letting out a wounded howl.

"Shh!" hissed Professor McGonagall, "you'll alert the Muggles – the sun's already rising as it is."

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, he took out a large spotted handkerchief and buried his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it – James an' Lily an' 'Arry dead – an' poor little-"

"Hagrid." interjected Dumbledore evenly.

Professor McGonagall shook her head, "Yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll attract unnecessary attention."

Hagrid made another strangled noise as Dumbledore ascended the pathway toward the front door. Professor McGonagall attempted to comfort the large man with a gingerly pat on the arm.

"Hagrid." said Dumbledore. "Perhaps you should return the bike to Mr. Black."

"Yeah." agreed Hagrid, voice muffled. "I'll take it right back. G'night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, Sir."

Dumbledore nodded, as Hagrid wiped away his remaining tears upon his jacket sleeve and swung himself onto the borrowed motorbike. It roared to life loudly, although amazingly nobody from the quiet neighbourhood appeared to hear it, and jolted into the skies. Hagrid disappeared into the sunrise moments later.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall." said Dumbledore next. He nodded in her direction, as though indicating she was free to leave. Professor McGonagall stood firm, narrowing her eyes in response. Instead of arguing, Dumbledore let out a resigned sigh and knocked upon the wooden door of number four.

In her slumber, the little girl within the blankets waved her small fist and sniffled softly, entirely unaware of her impending fate. A slim blonde woman, with a resigned expression and neatly styled hair, answered the door.

"Mrs. Dursley," said Dumbledore, "I need you to listen _very_ closely to what I say..."

Petunia Dursley looked from the unmistakable child within the blankets, across to the green-robed woman and promptly back to purple-robed man. She screamed in horror.


	2. The Letter from Hogwarts

******Vanna Rose, the Stone & the Chamber  
**Vanna is eleven years old when she realises she doesn't know herself very well. For starters, she's a witch, and not only that but a dark-wizard-defeating infant and, on top of it all, the Sorting Hat insists she's a Slytherin. (AU, Girl-Who-Lived)

.

Disclaimer... I do not own Harry Potter. As this story is an Alternate Universe re-write, it does include direct quotes and paraphrased passages throughout - all of which belong to J.K. Rowling. If you would like to see the full outline for this AU, please see the info at the beginning of Chapter One.

* * *

**The Letter from Hogwarts**

_July, 1991_

Privet Drive remained as idyllically normal as ever. In the front yard of number four, beyond the perfectly spaced tulips, eleven-year-old Dudley Dursley sat impatiently within the family sedan. Petunia Dursley, his mother, settled herself neatly into the driver's seat and instructed her blonde-haired, blue-eyed cherub to fasten his seat belt. Dudley refused.

Inside the family home, Vernon Dursley ambled down the staircase before rapping his fist against the door of the closet that lay beneath them. He leisurely unfastened the dead-locks with an unintelligible grunt and then continued on toward the kitchen. His attention was henceforth focussed upon the new Grunnings drill catalogue, which he had personally overseen the designing and organisation of.

Underneath the staircase, a heavy door slowly inched open and a small head emerged, surveying the surroundings. Vanna Potter tucked a curl behind her ear, her emerald eyes meandering the hallway, before she stepped tentatively from her confinement. It was a perfectly lovely summers day outside and Dudley, she had overheard earlier, was out with Aunt Petunia collecting his secondary school uniform. She, however, was not permitted to wander outside.

Uncle Vernon limited her general exposure to the outside world in for fear displays of _funny stuff_. Aunt Petunia was similarly concerned, in addition to preferring to keep her niece hidden from the neighbours. Vanna could understand why, she supposed, as she was an odd-looking sort of child compared to most others her age. She was unnaturally thin, although that might've been attributable to inadequate nutrition and lacking sunlight. It certainly didn't help that her clothes, second-hand from her unhealthily large cousin, swamped her tiny figure.

She liked little of her appearance, for she was regularly teased about it, with the exception of her waist-length hair. It was black as midnight and transitioned from soft waves at the top into loose curls near the ends. Uncle Vernon deemed it _freakish_, like most things about her, but Aunt Petunia seemed unnaturally preoccupied with properly taking care of it. It was something her Aunt and Uncle had disagreed over often, until Aunt Petunia had pointed out how well it hid, and detracted attention from, the scar on Vanna's forehead. Vanna was thankful for that, as ever since then her Uncle had stopped forcing her to receive haircuts.

One thing her relatives both detested equally - besides Vanna in general - was her scar. It was located just above her brow, to the right hand side of her forehead. The mark was pale pink in colour and the precise shape of a lightning bolt. Aunt Petunia had informed her once – and _only_once, never again to be repeated – that she had obtained it in the car crash that killed her parents.

Vanna knew little of her mother and father, for discussing them was expressly forbidden and asking questions was punishable by extended cupboard confinement. Aunt Petunia's flippant one-time mention of their car accident was the extent of Vanna's knowledge. During her longer confinements within the cupboard Vanna often tried incredibly hard, as though she were sifting through her own mind, to recall memories of them.

It often gave her headaches; especially when a blinding green light flashed throughout her mind. It was something that happened occasionally and she was never certain if it was a result of thinking too hard, or if it were a real memory. One moment there was green, bright green, everywhere with an incredible burning sensation and the next, a billowing darkness sweeping past. Sometimes, she thought the darkness might have been a figure, a person.

Unfortunately, she knew little about cars and what happened when one was involved in a crash. She'd have liked to know if, when they did hit something, they emitted bright green lights. In fact, there were honestly an endless amount of things Vanna wished to know more about. Aunt Petunia had, however, strictly denied her request for a library membership.

"What are you doing standing in the hallway, girl?" demanded Uncle Vernon.

Vanna startled from her thoughts and found herself standing just outside her doorway, directly facing toward the kitchen where an agitated Uncle Vernon sat. His eyes were narrowed from over the top of his Grunnings catalogue. Her eyes darted across the hallway until she decided that at least until her Uncle went elsewhere, it was better to return to her cupboard after all.

. . .

. . .

It was approximately midday when Aunt Petunia returned home with an over-fed and obnoxiously vocal Dudley. Vanna heard her cousin loudly boast about all the important things he had been purchased during the day; namely, his Smeltings uniform. It was followed by his equally loud declarations of the great things he would do once attending the school, most of which included belittling any 'wimps'. Smeltings Secondary School was a private institution, one that Uncle Vernon himself had attended as a teenager and the Dursley's could not have been prouder of their son's acceptance. In comparison, Vanna was enrolled to begin her secondary schooling at Stonewall High, the local public school. It didn't bother her at all, in fact she was more than a little relieved not to be stuck with Dudley on weekdays anymore.

Vanna decided to shimmy from the confines of her cupboard once Dudley had disappeared up the stairwell. In the living room, she could hear the sounds of the afternoon newscast on television, which Uncle Vernon was watching. She softly closed the heavy wooden door behind her, only to notice a strange smell wafting from the kitchen.

Aunt Petunia was there, standing over the sink with an unpleasant look etched on her face. In her hands was a large wooden spoon, which she appeared to be using to push around the contents of a large metal tub. Vanna bit her lip and inched forward to see a collection of old clothes submerged in a murky grey substance. It made her feel a little unwell just looking at it.

"I've told you to stop sneaking up like that." her Aunt hissed, startled by her sudden presence.

Vanna froze. "Sorry."

Aunt Petunia tightened her grip on the wooden ladle she had been stirring with. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"Nothing, I just smelt..." she trailed off, not quite knowing _what_ it was she had smelt.

"Your new school uniform." stated Aunt Petunia, tone clipped. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished."

"I don't think-" she began, but at Aunt Petunia's threatening look, she stopped short. Aunt Petunia was obviously aware it would look horrible and simply did not care. It probably shouldn't have surprised her. Vanna glanced once more at the tub before slipping away into the living room. She reminded herself inwardly to stay quiet next time.

Uncle Vernon didn't notice her enter the room, nor did he pay any attention as she carefully sat herself upon the farthest lounge chair. It was nothing out of the ordinary, anyhow, for her relatives rarely paid her any mind. Either that or she was just very good at sneaking, Vanna wasn't really sure.

It was peaceful in the living room, besides the newscaster's lively voice, for all of a few moments before Dudley strode in. He was fully clothed in his new school uniform.

"Dad!" he demanded as he entered. "Look at my new uniform."

Uncle Vernon immediately muted the television set and turned to his son. Dudley wore the traditional Smelting's outfit; a maroon tailcoat, orange knickerbockers and a flat straw hat. Uncle Vernon had referred to the hats as _boaters_and had apparently been rather fond of his as a boy. In addition to this, all Smeltings students owned a long, lumpy stick that was effectively designed to inflict pain upon other people.

Dudley strode around the living room with great purpose whilst Aunt Petunia hurried in from the kitchen. She had tears in her eyes, whilst Uncle Vernon looked stoutly impressed.

"_This_," he said, clearing his throat gruffly. "Is the proudest moment of my life."

Aunt Petunia sniffled. "I can't believe it," she said. "My ickle Dudleykins is all grown up. So _handsome_ in his uniform."

Vanna dropped her gaze toward the floor, not certain if she could look at her cousin much longer. In fact, she thought that he looked so remarkably similar to the hairballs produced by Mrs. Figg's cat, Tufty, that she almost smiled.

. . .

. . .

Dudley's beloved Smeltings stick had become the bane of Vanna's existence no later than breakfast the following morning. Not only did he carry it everywhere; he flailed it everywhere, too. In his impatience for pancakes, he slammed the stick against the wooden table legs loudly. Aunt Petunia placated him by offering a chocolate bar instead. Uncle Vernon remained engrossed in his newspaper.

It was the clicking of the mail slot that eventually caused Uncle Vernon to look up from his reading. "Get the mail, Dudley." he instructed.

Dudley screwed up his face. "Make Vanna get it." he protested.

Uncle Vernon grunted. "Get the mail girl." he said, idly waving a hand in the direction of the Smeltings stick. "Poke her with your Smelting stick, Dudley."

Dudley was thrilled to oblige. Instinctively, Vanna made one smooth movement toward the left and narrowly avoided the sticks reach. Dudley whined in annoyance but, not wanting to expend further energy, gave up easily. It was a quick journey to the hallway, through the kitchen and just past the staircase and on the welcoming mat lay three items.

Vanna collected them individually. The first was a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge, who had been vacationing on the Isle of Wight. Underneath it was a stamped brown letter that was likely a bill. Lastly, there was a tightly packed envelope that was addressed directly to Vanna. It read:

_Miss V. Potter__  
__The Cupboard Under the Stairs_  
_4 Privet Drive_  
_Little Whinging, Surrey_

It made her startle slightly, for nobody had ever addressed mail to her before. Nobody had reason to do so, she had no friends and the remainder of her family was dead. She eyed the envelope in her hands closely. It was a thick letter, although not too heavy, and the envelope itself was made from yellowed parchment. Her name and address were written neatly in emerald-green ink. No stamps were to be found but there was a detailed wax seal, depicting a coat of arms. A lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake, all in purple wax, surrounded the letter 'H'.

"Hurry up, girl!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?"

Uncle Vernon proceeded to chuckle heartily at his own joke and Vanna glanced down at the precious letter cradled in her palm. If she opened it at the table, Dudley was likely to snatch it away and she didn't want that. Uncle Vernon would probably demand to know who it was from, too. She wanted to open her own special letter, so as best she could considering the size, Vanna folded the envelope and placed it into the pocket of her second-hand jeans.

. . .

. . .

Uncle Vernon had departed for work approximately an hour prior and Aunt Petunia had been gossiping with the next door neighbour for the past quarter. Dudley was sprawled across the lounge, having decided it was too hot to go outdoors, and had fixated himself on an animated television series. It was relatively quiet within the cupboard beneath the stairs as Vanna withdrew the thick envelope from her pocket. She pressed her worn trainer against the heavy door, opening it just an inch and allowing light to flood throughout the small space.

In a careful effort not to damage her very first letter, Vanna slipped a finger beneath the purple waxed seal and gently opened the envelope. Inside was a letter, made from the same yellowed parchment paper and written in identical emerald-green ink. Although, instead of normal pages it consisted of one tightly folded continual sheet. Vanna placed the envelope itself onto her pillow and allowed the parchment sheet to tumble open. She took one last cautionary glance at the hallway before beginning to read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry__  
__Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Miss Potter,__  
__We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._  
_Yours sincerely,_  
_Minerva McGonagall_  
_Deputy Headmistress_

Initially, she frowned at the letter, uncertain who would bother to send her such a strange thing. Once her initial surprise had abated, she slowly re-read every individual word. In the end, she found herself clutching at the parchment paper so tightly; it ripped a little beneath her fingertips. Vanna tensed at the tearing sound and dropped the letter.

If it were a prank, it was too well-written to be from Dudley or his friends and she honestly didn't know if her Aunt or Uncle would have put so much effort into a joke. Neither one had much of a sense of humour, really.

Vanna cautiously retrieved the fallen parchment paper from the floor. It mentioned witchcraft and wizardry; magic, like the fairytales other children at school talked about. Aunt Petunia had always refused to tell neither Dudley nor Vanna of any fairytales growing up, not even when Dudley had whined for months. Uncle Vernon called them nonsense and Aunt Petunia had once muttered something about the tales being freakish.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia hated nothing more than nonsense and freakishness. It was something Vanna seemed to be guilty of often, without ever truly trying. In fact, her most recent confinement within the cupboard had been punishment for a weird mishap on Dudley's birthday at the zoo. Vanna couldn't explain the disappearance of the thick glass surrounding the boa constrictor enclosure, nor was she certain if she had merely imagined a conversation with the snake. Uncle Vernon, however, had immediately deemed her responsible for the event – Vanna and her _freakishness_.

It similarly reminded her of the very first time she had been locked in the cupboard for causing freaky things to happen, despite her protests otherwise. Dudley and his friends had newly established a ritual of taunting Vanna during their free time. They had only been in kindergarten back then, but it would fast develop into a time-honoured tradition. In her haste to escape her cousin and his bullying friends one lunchtime, Vanna had found herself tucked behind a row of rose bushes that seemed to weave tighter and grow taller the closer the four boys came. It had earned her a stern lecture for freakishness and three days in the cupboard, after which an incident with a tree, a stranded cat and an inexplicably extending branch, had put her right back again for another week.

Vanna flicked her attention back toward the slightly torn parchment paper, smoothing her hand across the creased edges. Witchcraft. Wizardry. _Freakishness_. She continued to read, slowly:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Uniform (First Year Students)...__  
__Three sets of plain work robes (black)_  
_One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_  
_One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_  
_One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

_Course Books (First Year Students)...__  
__The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk_  
_A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_  
_Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_  
_A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch_  
_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_  
_Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_  
_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_  
_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble_

_Other Equipment...__  
__wand cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set_  
_glass or crystal phials_  
_telescope set_  
_brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl __or __a cat __or __a toad._

_Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks._

Vanna pursed her lips tightly and frowned intensely at the strange parchment letter. None of it made much sense at all.

. . .

. . .

Vanna awoke from a peaceful dream the following morning to the sound of Uncle Vernon rapping heavily against the door of her cupboard. In her dream, she had flown across the British skies upon a flying motorbike. It took an extended moment for the dream to finally fade entirely, at which point Vanna blinked rapidly in the surrounding darkness. Uncle Vernon was evidently unimpressed by her dallying.

"Get up, girl." he demanded loudly. A moment later, he swung the door open and glared down at her with an unimpressed expression. "I said get- What's that?"

Underneath her pillow, almost crumpled into a ball, was the yellowed envelope. Without thinking, Vanna scrambled for the letter itself which lay neatly folded upon the floor by her bed head. She managed to reach forward far enough to feather one fingertip across the edge of the parchment before Uncle Vernon snatched it away entirely.

Uncle Vernon held the precious parchment letter tightly in his fist, roughly shaking the letter until it cascaded open. Vanna lifted her gaze warily, awaiting his reaction. Instead of growing red with anger or perhaps spluttering about nonsense, as she had imagined; his face turned a deathly pale shade of white. Vanna immediately shrunk back slightly, huddled on her thin mattress.

"P-P-Petunia!" bellowed Uncle Vernon, the moment he regained his wits. It was followed by a tense sliver of silence, before he stormed down the hallway.

Untangling her lanky limbs from beneath herself, Vanna scurried from the confines of her cupboard and followed her Uncle. Aunt Petunia took the letter from Uncle Vernon's outstretched arm as he thundered into the kitchen. She read no more than a sentence before beginning to make a choking noise, and appearing as though she was likely to faint.

"Vernon!" she cried. "Oh, my goodness – Vernon!"

Uncle Vernon began pacing, whilst Aunt Petunia stepped backward to lean against the kitchen bench-top. It became entirely silent besides the occasional squeaking of Uncle Vernon's shoes. At short intervals, their eyes would meet with a strange, shared look. Whilst they appeared to be locked within a wordless conversation, Vanna situated herself by the door frame, thankful that neither occupant of the kitchen noticed her there.

"What should we do, Vernon?" asked Aunt Petunia eventually, breaking the silence. "Should we write back? Tell them we don't want-"

Uncle Vernon switched directions. "No." he said determinedly. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer... yes, that's best... we won't do anything..."

"But-"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia!" he shouted. "Didn't we swear when we took her in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

Aunt Petunia nodded gravely and it became momentarily quiet once more. Vanna inhaled sharply, fingers gripping at the hemline of her fraying shirt. It was plainly clear that both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia understood the content of the letter; moreover, they actively wanted to 'stamp out' the related, likely _necessary_'nonsense' it entailed.

Uncle Vernon slowed his pacing marginally. "She is not going to-"

"I'm a witch." breathed Vanna, essentially to herself.

Aunt Petunia instantly let out a shrill noise, as though she were in extreme discomfort. Uncle Vernon stopped dead in his tracks and snapped his head toward her, eyes seemingly bulging from their sockets.

"No." growled Uncle Vernon shortly. "There is no such thing. Get back to your cupboard, girl. Now!"

"If there wasn't, you wouldn't need to stamp it out."

"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon. His face was quickly becoming flushed with anger. "I TOLD YOU TO GO BACK TO YOUR CUPBOARD!"

Uncle Vernon strode forward with heavy, thudding footsteps, headed directly toward Vanna. She stepped backward instinctively, only to find herself up against the solid surface of the door frame. Uncle Vernon drew closer, practically spluttering with rage and Vanna cowered slightly. Her body tensed with rising fear and her fingers clutched tightly at the wooden frame. Vanna's breath began to quicken, and suddenly, an ornate glass jar situated on-top of the neatly lined kitchen shelves shattered with an ear-piercing crack.

Aunt Petunia shrieked as glass shards rained down directly upon Uncle Vernon's head. Uncle Vernon stepped backward with a loud yelp.

"I knew you'd be just like this - just as abnormal as your dratted parents!" screeched Aunt Petunia. She motioned toward the glass, scattered across the kitchen floor. "I was the only one who saw them for what they were – _freaks_! Off at that school turning teacups into rats, pockets full of frog spawn! And then, if you please, they can't even manage to keep themselves out of trouble – so we got landed with you!"

Vanna breathed shakily. "My parents were-"

"YOUR PARENTS WERE WEIRDOS." shouted Uncle Vernon. "As far as I'm concerned, the world's better off without them. Now, if you don't get back into your cupboard RIGHT NOW-"

Uncle Vernon abruptly trailed off as loud thumping sounded from the stairs. Aunt Petunia directed a filthy look in Vanna's direction, for waking up her precious son during summer holidays. Dudley thudded his way down the remaining steps and entered the kitchen, one hand holding his Smeltings stick and the other rubbing lazily over his eyes. He looked prepared to sulk and whine over the situation, until he noticed Vanna was clearly in trouble and, of course, demanded to know why. "What did she do?"

"Give me your Smelting stick, Dudley." said Uncle Vernon. Dudley immediately went to argue but Uncle Vernon swiftly yanked it from his grip.

Dudley grabbed for it. "Give it back!" he whined. "I want my Smeltings stick!"

Aunt Petunia hurried over to comfort her darling son, but Uncle Vernon ignored his protests. Instead, he raised the stick and prodded it firmly into the flesh of Vanna's back. He shoved her forward, out of the kitchen and roughly pushed her into the opened cupboard. She stumbled in, falling awkwardly onto the creaking bed frame and cushioning the fall with her elbows.

"You will not come out of there until the end of summer." he growled.

Vanna watched as the cupboard door swung to a close; quickly purging the morning sunlight from her surroundings. It slammed shut with an almighty _bang_ and she immediately heard the sliding and thunking of each and every bolt and deadlock being set into place.

* * *

A/N: Dudley has a stick. A lumpy stick that he waves around and shouts orders with... LIKE A WAND. HAHAHAHA. 'Those thin lumpy sticks used for waving at people are freaky, for freaky people, who do freaky things. That thick lumpy stick used for waving at people is a _Smelting Stick_, for important boys like Dudley, who are special and important' – well done, Dursleys, you idiots.

Well, there you go, you've met Vanna and now she knows she's a witch. Unfortunately, she's a locked up witch. Next up: Hagrid comes to visit ;)


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